Commendable Service
by glamaphonic
Summary: Given that Jim was clammy, pale, and about half an hour off from unwanted fluids coming out of various orifices, he shouldn't have been nearly as attractive as he was. KirkMccoy.


**Author's Note:** Highly important missing scene.

* * *

Jim began to drag his feet halfway to the duty locker. McCoy grumbled, cursed, groaned, and then shifted his arm further around Jim's waist, hefting him upwards.

"Move your feet, Jim!" he commanded after taking a few slow steps.

Jim's only immediate reply was to squeeze his eyes shut and allow his head to loll onto McCoy's shoulder.

"I thought you were my friend, Bones," Jim said after McCoy had propped him against a shelf of freshly laundered uniforms so that he could secure the door behind them.

"I've treated five-year-olds with more fortitude than you, you know," McCoy declared, but did not refrain from slinging Jim's arm around his shoulder once more and assisting him over to one of the benches in front of the neat row of lockers assigned to the medical staff.

Jim sat down heavily and if he heard McCoy's clipped order to undress he made no note of it. As such, McCoy was unsurprised to return to Jim still fully attired in his cadet reds, staring at his hand. McCoy set the pants and shirt he'd acquired on the bench beside his semi-delirious friend.

"I'm not supposed to be seeing three of my hand am I?" Jim asked, though it seemed an idle inquiry.

McCoy ignored it and ripped irritably at the fastenings of Jim's jacket.

"Gentle there, big fella," Jim said and grinned widely. Given that he was clammy, pale, and about half an hour off from unwanted fluids coming out of various orifices, it shouldn't have been nearly as attractive as it was.

McCoy tossed the jacket into an unceremonious pile on the floor.

"Up," he said. Jim obediently raised his arms and McCoy tugged the matching undershirt over his head, ignoring the urge to smooth the mess it made of the younger man's hair.

McCoy arranged Jim's head in the black duty shirt and left him to work out the arms for himself, turning his attention to pulling off Jim's boots. Jim's hand came to rest warm on his back as McCoy tugged at his left boot and he paused at the contact. The hesitation lasted less than a second—such moments rarely went on longer—but that was always just enough for the flash of unwanted reflection, the whys and whens that cropped up every time he found himself in a situation like this with Jim Kirk beside him.

He pushed it perfunctorily to the back of his thoughts, punctuated by the thud of Jim's boot on the floor.

"Pants," he said, pointing down as he helped heave Jim to his feet.

For reasons that McCoy would not allow himself to guess at, Jim held his eyes as he shoved the bright red slacks past narrow hips. McCoy looked away from his stare, down at the pants pooling around Jim's ankles. This, he immediately determined, was a terrible idea.

"Dammit, Jim, why aren't you wearing underwear?!"

"Unnecessary impediment," Jim replied matter-of-factly.

It had been a very long time since McCoy had looked away from a naked body, but it had been a very long time since he'd done a lot of things that Jim Kirk somehow made him do with impunity. He wasn't sure which of them he was more annoyed at as he wordlessly shoved the dark grey cargo pants into Jim's hands and averted his eyes.

He didn't turn his back, though. That would have just been ridiculous.

Twenty seconds passed filled with nothing but the sound of Jim's mildly labored breathing before McCoy dared to check his progress. Jim's pants were up with everything blessedly tucked in where it belonged, but he was fumbling with the fastenings.

McCoy sighed and slapped his hands away.

"My fingers are a little recalcitrant right now," Jim explained as McCoy carefully tugged his zipper into place.

McCoy hummed acknowledgement as he worked at the buttons, which seemed excessive in number at the moment—no less so when Jim put his hands on McCoy's shoulders.

"Not a lot of people help me iinto/i my pants, Bones," Jim said. McCoy didn't look at him. There was a smile in his voice, but it was also too soft.

"I'll be sure to put myself in for a commendation," McCoy murmured, securing the final button. Jim did not release his shoulders.

"You really should," Jim replied, studying his face. "Service above and beyond the call of duty, you know."

"I don't think sneaking delinquents on probation aboard the flagship counts."

"Does in my book." Jim blinked twice, slowly, which McCoy refused to interpret as fluttering his eyelashes. "Seriously, Bones, thanks," he said, his voice nearly at a whisper. Then he leaned forward—it only took a few inches—and pressed a very wet kiss to McCoy's cheek, just left of his mouth. Jim's mouth burned against McCoy's skin, but that was probably just the fever. McCoy did not consider where Jim had been aiming. This non-consideration left him stunned into silence for a few seconds as Jim stared at him, eyes partly lidded.

"You're disgusting," McCoy said finally, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. "You're lucky I've already been vaccinated."

"Sure," Jim said mildly, lowering himself back to the bench and holding out one foot expectantly.

McCoy would have let the smug bastard put his own boots on, but that seemed too much like surrender.


End file.
